Body and Soul
by gold cobra
Summary: In the cut-throat world of Tevinter, Magister Hawke acquires herself a beaten down Ferelden apostate slave. Features: tyrannicalF!Hawke, hurting!Anders, politics, romance, magic. Mature themes.


*Anything you want/need to know about this piece of fiction (including fullwarnings) is located on my profile. All characters and locations (except the obviously new) belong to Bioware™

Tevinter's lower market was bustling on a clear, warm and sunny morning. People marching to and fro, the smell of crowds in the air. Merchants set up stools everywhere selling all kinds of goods for Magisters and their slaves to browse, hoping to make some good coin with the painted garbage they had on display. Orana knew her mistress had not visited the market in a long while, having her slaves fetch the needed goods for her instead, such as food and bathing supplies, things of the like. But she had decided to break her shopping celibacy, for reasons Orana dare not ask. She knew her place. She could only be delighted that her mistress had chosen to take her along, and she clutched Magister Hawke's arm gently but persistently to remain at her side and not get swept up in the commotion of people.

"_A treat for good behaviour_," Her mistress had told her after requested she put on her outdoors coat and accompany her to the morning bazaar.

And a treat it was, for Orana had never been to a bazaar of this kind before. It was always Tabatha or Morgan who did the shopping, with careful cuts of their mistress' money, calculated exactly so they could only purchase what was needed. Tabatha was an aging human woman of unknown origin, who had served the mistress before Orana. She never spoke of herself but carried warmth about her that made Orana think she had been a mother once. She was very fond of their mistress and always kind to the other girls at the Hawke estate. Morgan was a bit different, a serving dwarf and more bitter than Tabatha. She seemed to resent her exile from Orzammar, often telling the kitchen girls spiteful tales about things they used to do to the casteless and how they were treated. She didn't hate their mistress like Orana had originally thought but neither did she hold any warmth for her. Often, Morgan was on the receiving end of the mistress' temper. Orana didn't know how Morgan had come to be owned by the mistress, but thought it was a better fate to be a serving dwarf than an outcast one.

The mistress led Orana around various booths, and the elf slave's large eyes could barely take in all the pretty dresses and glittering gems and jewellery. There were sapphires and rubies and emerald bracelets and gold and silver necklaces, so many trinkets that Orana could hardly believe and didn't even think existed. One thing stood out, a gem encrusted necklace with a whole-cut tiger's eye in the centre, and it was so beautifully crafted that Orana could not help but stare.

"Like that, do ya?" Her mistress' voice was in her ear and Orana squeaked in surprise. The dark-haired woman was looking at her, amusement present in her icy blue eyes. A smirk was lilting her lips, and her dark locks blew gently with a small breeze.

"Oh-mistress-I…I'm so sorry, I-" she began, stuttering helplessly. She realized she had let go of her mistress' arm and had not kept walking, staring at the beautiful necklace in awe.

"It's alright," the mistress chuckled. Orana felt relief flood through her body; her mistress seemed to be in an exceptionally good mood that morning. She looked over at the gem necklace, a little lacklustre. "Eh, it's not bad, I guess… a little bit over the top, though. All the gems around it are kinda overkill."

Orana didn't think so. She thought the gems surrounding the rim made the one in the middle look ever the prettier, standing out even when surrounded by other beauty. But she smiled complacently and voiced none of her thoughts. "Yes, mistress."

The mistress chuckled again and held out her arm expectantly. Orana latched on hurriedly and they continued their browsing, leaving the pretty necklace behind. When they reached the stool of material, mainly cotton, well-tanned leather and some other fabrics. But something seemed to have caught her mistress' eye. A shock of dazzling blue silk stood out, purest of color and glinting in the sun like it was covered in tiny, invisible sequins. It was truly a beautiful piece of work, the whole sheet, and the owning merchant looked on with quiet, hopeful interest as the mistress eyed it and tentatively touched it, rubbing it between her fingers. "What do you think, Orana?" She asked.

"Oh, Mistress!" Orana exclaimed, pleased to be included in her mistress' decision. "It's so pretty! Tabatha, Leigh and I could make you such a wonderful dress from it!" Leigh was another human girl, a small slip of a being, thinner than Orana herself when she had first arrived. She also spoke little of her previous life, but mentioned something about a father who didn't love her because her mother had died giving birth - and that was all Orana had needed to know. She considered Leigh as something of a protégé, because the girl had fast fingers and could sew almost as good as she herself could.

"Really?" The mistress said simply, and Orana nod emphatically.

"Yes, Mistress! We would work very hard to craft you a gown that you would be proud to wear."

Orana could feel her cheeks heat with interest, the prospect of sewing with such delightful fabric exciting her. Orana loved to sew, and was often the creator of most of her mistress' outfits - the ones that hadn't been purchased from vendors or given as gifts by other Magisters. She also did embroidery and darning, but making dresses was her favourite thing to do. She had never seen such pretty material, and ached to touch it but it was not her place to do so, But if the mistress bought it…

"If I may say so, Serah," the merchant finally spoke up. He looked a little nervous, but Orana knew that was to be expected. Some Magisters didn't like it when worthless peasants such as this merchant man spoke to them, but he seemed hopeful of a sale and was trying his luck just a little more. "I think the color goes wonderfully with your eyes."

The mistress' eyes (which Orana had to admit, went incredibly well with the silk, as the merchant had said) became hard as she turned her gaze on him. "Is that right." She deadpanned. He nodded, sweating a little, but didn't seem to back down. Orana commended him for his courage, and, perhaps, stupidity. "How much is this?" The mistress then demanded.

"Ten sovereigns," he replied. He took his bottom lip between his teeth, and his downy brown hair matted to his forehead. It was thinly spread and looked incredibly fine over his skull, sparse in the back areas of his head where he was going bald. He didn't look too old, perhaps mid-thirties. He most likely had a family to feed somewhere and was counting on the fine morning to bring customers and money, customers like the mistress, who made a small noise in the back of her throat that sounded like a displeased grunt.

"_Ten_?"

"I-it's very expensive and rare material, Serah, as silk is hard to come by in many places of the world and it is of better quality than leather and cotton. I… that piece you hold is a delicate import, miss…"

Orana watched the mistress' expression set. Her eyes, like stone, held the gaze of the merchant impassively as he flinched on instinct. "I'll take it for six. No higher."

Would there be need for the mistress to enforce herself today? Orana was silent at her mistress' side, watching the merchant as a myriad of thoughts echoed across his face. He looked as though he were debating argument, the brave and the self-preserving sides of him in a battle for supremacy. _Don't_, she pleaded in her mind, thinking of the family of little downy-haired children this man needed to care for; her mind created a picture of happiness, warmth, love. _Please don't. _The mistress didn't like her authority questioned, and it was a bad idea to do so being that in the Magistrate court, she was second only to the crude, off-putting and generally awful man named Danarius. When she had first met him, Orana had thanked the gods profusely that she had not become _his _slave when papa died, because rumours of what that man did to them… one look at the elf he always had by his side, a grizzly white haired young male, covered in strange markings that looked so painful regarding their receiving, was enough to hail them true in her mind.

"Very well," the merchant finally croaked when the mistress' gaze did not falter, and Orana breathed a silent sigh of relief. "Six it is."

The mistress' smile was simple but her eyes did not soften. "I'm glad we could come to an agreement." The elf slave watched her owner hand over the coins into the merchant's sweaty, waiting hands. "Orana, if you would."

Quickly, and with an apologetic glance at the merchant, the elf slave gathered the silk and folded it carefully, placing it into the empty satchel that had been on her back. Suitably collected, she took her mistress' arm and they headed off again, Orana lost in thought about children playing happily and that pretty necklace she had seen. The mistress didn't speak much, save for a few occasional greetings when coming across people she knew and cared to address, and the browse was peaceful, uneventful from there; until they heard a small commotion when they reached the food stalls.

"Bloody slave!" A dark-haired, well dressed man was yelling at another, blond haired, thin, struggling to carry his master's many goods. "What are you, lame? I told you to keep up and carry everything, very simple instructions to follow!"

There was nothing special about the confrontation. Masters scolded their slaves all the time, for both major and minor things, regardless of public display. Some masters enjoyed doing it to their slaves in public more, giving them a sense of being better, of authority. The mistress didn't seem to take pleasure in that, and Orana was glad. She expected to keep moving, ignore the commotion like everyone else, but the mistress had stilled rigidly. Confused, Orana looked into her owner's face and found those icy blue orbs were locked on something, an unreadable emotion inside them. Orana followed her gaze to the slave man, stumbling after his angry master. She frowned, and abruptly the mistress was moving towards them, leaving Orana to recover and catch up. When she did, the expression on her owner's face was neutral and the emotion in her eyes seemed to have disappeared in lieu of her usual indifference.

"Having trouble, Martin?" She spoke, gaining the dark-haired man's attention. He seemed surprised to see the mistress, Orana thought, and a little on edge. Most people were when regarding her, even other Magisters. _Especially _other Magisters.

"Ah. Hawke." He spoke cordially nevertheless, as manners were of delicate import to Magistrates and the court. Orana knew her mistress was loathe abiding by these unspoken rules, often complaining about the snakes in the courts that didn't deserve her manners. They were people who would stab you in the back and tell you good morning at the same time just for propriety, she'd said. "I haven't seen you here in a while. Decided the bazaar wasn't too good for you after all?"

"Something like that." Her voice was flat. "Problems?" She repeated, inclining her head at the slave who, Orana noticed, was staring at the ground. For a slave, he was incredibly unkempt. His blond hair was shaggy, dirty, much like his face. He had some semblance of a beard, scraggly and thin and he was wearing a simple robe; that, too, was filthy. There seemed to be some bruising on his face and his lips were dry and split, his knuckles that were visible, gripping shopping, were scabbed and bloody. His entire look was dishevelled, like he was a homeless man off the street that this Martin fellow had picked up and told to carry his things. Usually Magisters liked to keep their slaves clean and groomed, for appearance sake.

"Got this one yesterday, off a "friend" who said he had good blood for me," Martin groused, sending a glare his slave's way. The man didn't' seem to notice, never once taking his eyes off the floor. Orana felt a bit sorry for him. "I decided to take him out, see if he's of any use to me, and so far he's been bloody worthless; stumbling over his own feet, weak as a newborn… didn't even have the courtesy to clean himself up."

Her mistress was looking at the slave again, but her eyes were more guarded this time. She looked… contemplative, if there was anything Orana could garner from that gaze. She shifted her feet, wondering what was going to happen. Martin seemed impatient and irritated, but when her mistress spoke, she surprised all of them - including the slave. "I'll take him off your hands." Orana blinked in surprise, so did Martin, and the slave finally looked up. He had a gentle sort of face that had been marred with sadness and bruising, nose broken, but it was his eyes that struck Orana the most. A pale amber-like color, attention-catching, and… haunted.

"What?" Martin squawked, "What do you mean?"

"I mean," the mistress enunciated slowly, her gaze finally leaving the slave's face to meet Martin's. "I'll take him off your hands for you."

"But…" Martin frowned. Thoughts spun in Orana's mind. "Why?"

Her mistress gave a shrug. "You said so far he's been worthless to you. I'll have him and he can be my problem instead of yours."

"But I've only just got him! I haven't broken him in yet, so he might not be completely useless for all I know." Orana saw the slave wince. Her mistress must have seen it, too. "Besides, what do I get in return? I'm losing a slave if I give him up, useless or not."

The mistress suddenly grinned, but it wasn't a nice expression. It was dark. Feral, almost, and it was only during times like these that Orana was truly scared of her mistress. "You get your life, Martin. Don't forget, you still owe me for that wine cellar incident, and I think giving me this slave here will pay me back just fine." Her threat paled Martin, as he gulped and frantically decided that the messy slave wasn't worth his life.

"Take the blighter, then," he said, "since you seem to want him so badly."

"I'm glad we could come to an agreement." The mistress looked at the slave expectantly, who hadn't moved. His expression was the same, too. Empty. Hopeless. Orana's heart truly went out to him, but prayed he would see sense and join the mistress. Orana could guarantee this man was going to have a better life than if he had stayed with Martin - provided, of course, he did not anger the mistress to the point of no return.

"Well?" Snapped Martin, in a hurry to secure his life - for now. He rounded on the slave. "You've got ears, don't you? She's your master now. Get moving."

Stiff, like a plank of wood, the slave lowered Martin's things to the ground and Orana watched as he hesitantly looked at the mistress, who was waiting with the sense of calm but Orana could sense her patience was waning. She breathed her third sigh of relief that morning when the slave gave up his scrutiny and limped to her side, standing feet away and looking all the more worse for wear. Martin had the courage to scowl, looking at his things on the floor. "Who's going to carry my things back home now?" He lamented angrily, and the mistress laughed throatily.

"Oh, I'm sure you'll find some desperate bum to do it, Martin, for a little bit of coin… or a promise of a warm bed." She turned to her slaves. "C'mon. We're going home."

They left Martin behind, the man cursing and collecting his bags (or attempting to) and Orana cast a glance at their newest addition, who was lagging and following with resigned uncertainty, looking questioning but defeated at the same time. Orana wondered about him, and then about her mistress. What had possessed her to want the slave? She had never taken a male one before, all the people working at her estate being female. Orana wondered at his purpose; would he clean and serve, or… was he wanted for something else? Something more?

She could only wait and see, she supposed, the sullen slave watching the ground as he followed. Her mistress was quite the enigma, after all.


End file.
